


An Unstoppable Force and an Immovable Object

by calciseptine



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Destructive Relationship, Dubious Consent, M/M, Marking, Non-Consensual Spanking, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-12
Updated: 2010-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco defies and Harry despairs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unstoppable Force and an Immovable Object

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so back in January I did a meme where a bunch of people requested drabbles and I completely forgot about it until now. This drabble was requested by **saying_sooth** and is the first HPDM I've ever written. (I betrayed my OTP for you Cindy, so you better appreciate it.) Much love to my waifu, **faorism**, for being my beta and keeping me on the right track.

The Astronomy Tower is too cold in the winter and you can see your breath disperse in the air above his head; the chill of the stones seeps through your cloak and his to your back. Your nose is numb and so are your toes, and your fingers would be too if they weren't curled into the sweaty strands of his hair, your palm against his thundering pulse and your knuckles as white as the snow you see collecting on the window ledge near to you. _Snow for Christmas,_ you think inanely.

"You could—at least—pretend—" he grunts between each thrust, and your wandering eyes find his, a verdant open instead of an ivory closed.

"You _could_ hurry up," you counter acidly.

The noise that crawls out of his throat would be a snarl if you were inclined to give him the credit. You won't, because he shifts his weight back and pulls you with him. Your spinuous vertebrae and sharp scapulae grind against the stone, bearing the brunt of this new angle, and he slaps a pink hand print across your upper thigh and lower buttock even though he knows you loathe the sting. "Arsehole," you hiss, and pull viciously at a lank of his unruly dark hair. He turns his head, bites at your wrist—tomorrow, at dinner, you will tug, tug, tug at your sleeve during dinner with your mother and father to hide the incriminating bruise.

"No marks," you spit at him in reminder, even though it's too late, and you know he's just getting you back for the bloody lines you scratched into his chest the week before. "No one—"

"—can know," he snaps as tightly as he snaps his hips. "Could you—shut—the fuck—up?"

You glare at him from underneath your lashes and open your mouth to say something, anything, just for the sake of deepening that angry furrow between the dark lines of his eyebrows. You don't know what you are going to say and you never will because he stifles your words with three fingers between your teeth.

"I said—shut—up," he growls, and your hands slip from his hair to his shoulders to brace yourself, your nails biting into the meat of his shoulders like your teeth bite into his cracked knuckles. You hate how he handles you, how he gags you, how he fucks you raw. He hates how you push, how you complain, how you never do anything he wishes you would. You should not have succumbed to the desperation in the hunch of his shoulders and he should have not buckled beneath the inevitability in your stance, but here you are. With you, he can despair. With him, you can defy.

"Shit—" he whines when you come unexpectedly, without a touch, over your concave belly and visible ribs. For one torturous moment, you believe that you can feel him come inside you, feel his heat and his regrets and his true desires. Then he slips out with a disgusting squelch, a broken sigh, and a touch to your temple that's too gentle.

It makes the cold world tilt.

As his fingers slither against your swollen mouth, you remember that you this isn't _real._ It's a space carved selfishly between his prophesied duty and your blood-given obligations. No one can know about it and you need to view it like a dream, so you force yourself to sneer, "Are you quite done?" before he can see the ache in your soul, or before you can see the reflecting ache in his.

He looks at you. You look out the window.

"Yeah," he replies after your heart slows and beats in opposition to his. "Yeah, Malfoy, I'm done."


End file.
